


Vessel

by Anonymous



Category: Joker (2019)
Genre: Extremely Underage, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-28
Updated: 2019-11-28
Packaged: 2021-02-25 05:14:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21591046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: “What are you thinking about?”“Nothing much,” Arthur murmured, kissing the inside of Bruce’s pale, unmarked wrist. “Just thinking about you.”
Relationships: Arthur Fleck/Bruce Wayne
Comments: 2
Kudos: 144
Collections: Anonymous





	Vessel

* * *

He bent over the boy, his body a twisted, fragile, breakable shape as his fingers curled over Bruce’s wrists. His fingernails dug in, cutting petal-silk skin and hopefully drawing blood. It was another physical memory Bruce would have. Every unmarked inch needed to be marked. Every shred of empty skin needed to be claimed. 

Every scrape of Arthur’s chopstick hips needed to snap against Bruce in undying, devoted thought, word, and deed. 

Bruce began to make an attempt at struggling again. He clawed at the bloodstained carpet just underneath him, tearing his throat with his horrible, harsh gasps. “Please,” he choked out. “P-please— _ah!”_ He ended on a cry. Arthur grabbed at the hair on the back of Bruce’s head and pulled it, twisting the chunks of deep brown between his sweaty fingers. Somewhere in Arthur’s broken, screaming, dysfunctional, rusting brain, he recognized that what he needed the most was any way to force Bruce closer to him. As if it were possible to bury his cock inside Bruce’s impossibly tight, red little hole any further. As if it were possible to physically split Bruce in half, leaving the little boy in ceaseless agony after Arthur was finished with him. 

“No one’s ever listened to me before, Bruce,” Arthur hissed, his voice a sharp, shiny thing. His tongue was a knife. His body was a weapon to be wielded as he pleased. Bruce clenched down around him, muscles flexing out of fearful reflex. Arthur swore and let out a shout, nails scraping over Bruce’s shoulder. It was deep. It was raised and pink and deep and that would linger, too. “No one—fuck, fuck!—no one’s ever listened to me! Why would they listen to you!?” 

Bruce couldn’t answer. He could only make sounds, the helpless noises of a puppy that had been beaten. Crying, nothing but crying, his heart hanging by little blood-vessel threads out of his mouth. He tried to at least say something with some measure of weight, something that maybe could have resembled Arthur’s name. “Ah” and “ur” falling out after his heart and his guts. 

And it was exactly everything Arthur needed to come. He convulsed and stuttered and his vision went stark white, seeing absolutely nothing and feeling absolutely everything. 

“What are you thinking about?”

Arthur opened his eyes to see Bruce fully-clothed, somber, and dignified as he stood in front of the couch, his thumb smearing grease paint as he brushed the pad of it over Arthur’s white cheek. Arthur closed his eyes again for a moment and turned his head to lick Bruce’s thumb, sucking on it. 

“Nothing much,” he murmured, kissing the inside of Bruce’s pale, unmarked wrist. “Just thinking about you.” 


End file.
